Iron-clad feather feet pounding the dust   On October's day, towards evening   Sweat embossed veins standing proud to the plough   Salt on a deep chest, seasoning      Last of the line at an honest day's toil   Turning the deep sod under   Flint at the fetlock, chasing the bone   Flies at the nostrils plunder      The Suffolk, the Clydesdale, the Percheron vie   With the Shire on his feathers floating   Hauling soft timber into the dusk   To bed on a warm straw coating      Heavy horses, move the land under me   Behind the plough gliding, slipping and sliding free   And now you're down to the few, and there's no work to do   The tractor's on its way      Let me find you a filly for your proud stallion seed   To keep the old line going   And we'll stand you abreast at the back of the woods   Behind the young trees growing      To hide you from eyes that mock at your girth   Your eighteen hands at the shoulder   And one day when the oil barons have all dripped dry   And the nights are seen to draw colder      They'll beg for your strength, your gentle power   Your noble grace and your bearing   And you'll strain once again to the sound of the gulls   In the wake of the deep plough, sharing      Heavy horses, move the land under me   Behind the plough gliding, slipping and sliding free   And now you're down to the few, and there's no work to do   The tractor's on its way      Now the heavy horses, move the land under me   Behind the plough gliding, slipping and sliding free   And now you're down to the few, and there's no work to do   The tractor's on its way      Now the heavy horses, move the land under me   Behind the plough gliding, slipping and sliding free